Sam Venable: A lesson in cultural relativity

BERN, Switzerland — Albert Einstein lived at 49 Kramgasse in this capital city from 1903 through 1905.

It was here he began developing the theory of relativity. His old apartment is now a tourist attraction.

I don’t know physics from a case of Shinola. But I have come to understand something about the “relativity” of daily life in this part of the world.

Specifically, how it differs from America.

Folks here aren’t big on air-conditioning. Many hotels, offices and shops don’t have it at all. No need to most of the year. But during the occasiwonal heat wave that strikes western Europe, I honestly don’t see how they survive.

On three days during our stay — two in Switzerland, one in Austria — the mercury flirted with 100 degrees F. Sky-high humidity to boot. But just like we did half a century ago, these people simply grin, sweat and bear it.

By city law, the AC in hotels throughout Bern automatically shuts off between 8 a.m. and noon. I had to manually reset the thermostat every evening for a puff of cool.

Sure, this is a small, touristy price to pay for visiting such a wonderful, historic, scenic region. And I gotta admit it makes environmental-economic sense. Why do we keep our houses like igloos when nobody’s home?

There is something else we could learn from the Europeans: No littering. As in zilch, ixnay, nada.

During the 53-mile drive between Bern and the resort city of Gstaad — through rural and urban settings — I tried to spy a roadside cup, paper or can. One did not exist. Period.

Oddly enough, there aren’t that many trash cans in public places. People simply hold onto their refuse until they do come across a container. Only then do they pitch.

One morning in bustling, downtown Bern, I saw a teenager pedal his bike all the way across the street and through a parking lot to deposit his empty Red Bull can into a bin. In Tennessee, I’ll guarantee that can would have been mindlessly flung the second it was drained.

Oh, there is trash, all right. Except here they call it art. I’m serious.

At a municipal park in Montreux, along the shore of Lake Geneva, Mary Ann and I happened upon a manicured, heavily flowered display of “sculpture” crafted from old tires, wheel rims, toilets, tubs and other human offal. It was comically beautiful.

In the center of it all sat the rusting hulk of a bashed, junker car, planted inside and out with trees, shrubs and flowers.

Had there been a sprig of kudzu, I might have wept out of homesickness.